Busking For Hearts
by XxTwistedEverAfterxX
Summary: Spain would be a much colder place without the heat of its passionate music. Lovino can't stay away, even after all these years. Something- someone- keeps drawing him back. There's a passion laying dormant in him that only one man can awaken. AU Spamano.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hey everyone! This is my first Spamano and Hetalia story, though I've been a lurker and fan for a loooong time~~ (Nice to meet you all, Hetalia fans!) I'll be posting up lots of lovely Hetalia fics soon, so keep an eye out for them! Anyway, just quickly about this story! It's called "Busking For Hearts", and I've had it stewing in my mind for a while now. Not all of it is planned out, and I'm rather busy, so I do apologise for fluctuating update times and plot. Not to mention characters... I roleplay Hetalia, but, in terms of writing it on my own, I'm a bit nervous, haha! (Shut up, back to Busking For Hearts!) Right, so, warnings are in call for. This story will have some darker themes, Lovino's potty mouth, lemon later, and I must warn you, this is **_**slight**_** shota. (This writer is now officially going to hell! Yay!) If there are any further warnings, I'll be sure to put them up before the Chapter begins! The rating **_**will_go up to M in future chapters, so unless you are reading this when it is already rated M, be warned please :)_**

**_Anyway, please enjoy Busking For Hearts!_**

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><p><strong>Chapter One<br>**

Winter is harsh, more in Europe than almost anywhere else in the world, being rather high on the northern hemisphere. Today was the coldest December day on record, snowing for the first time in many years. Not that I minded much, even if the layers of clothes I wore were rather pitifully unsuited for the weather. With the bitter cold and sharp winds of winter, the warm caress of summer follows, licking at your skin and heating your heart like the blazing beats of the drums played at festivals as you dance around a fire in celebrations.

Spain was always a beautiful country, and I loved it with all of my heart.

Being Spanish, it's almost natural to be a patriot, but it flows so naturally to me, to be so utterly devoted to and in love with my country. I'd cheer for my team in the FIFA, I'd be on edge all through Eurovision hoping that perhaps we would win this year, and when a foreigner came into my land and attempted Spanish, I could never be prouder that they had chosen _my_ country over all those many others.

It was no different today.

The winds were particularly harsh, and snow drifted in little flakes across the streets, trees, buildings and my hair and clothes. My guitar caught a few of the crystallised beauties, though they melted with the warmth of my hands on the neck and strings.

Actually, to be telling the truth, I was rather cold.

A breeze swept along the street I sat on, picking up the snow, dirt and the occasional piece of rubbish that had settled on the pavement, carrying it past me. I shivered briefly but didn't cease the movement of my hands as I strummed the guitar to the melody in my heart. The instrument sung of warmth, beauty, joy and love, or… so I believed. That was the melody I heard. That was what it whispered to me with each pluck of the strings and glide of my calloused fingers along the slim neck of the instrument, making it call out beautifully to the evening air for all to hear.

Not many people were around. It was getting late, and everyone seemed to have developed a fear of the cold. Most had left the city by about half past three in the afternoon, and it was bordering six now. Actually, I wasn't quite sure- I couldn't see the clock from here and I had no watch on me. I could only ever guess by the position of the sun in the sky.

That was why I became extremely surprised to see a young boy, standing on his own, simply watching me on the opposite edge of the sidewalk I sat on.

At first, all he did was scowl at me, his little nose red from cold, face otherwise buried in the scarf wrapped around his neck. Tiny arms were wrapped around the small body, shivering quite vividly, yet the child made no attempt to leave for someplace warmer. After a while of watching me play my guitar, he seemed to realise that my eyes were resting on him. He had the most beautiful colour eyes, amber, or hazel; it was hard to tell from the little distance of a couple of metres, but they were a remarkable colour.

"Che cazzo, bastardo!"

Oh, my, what unexpected language from a child…

I smiled in response, laughing as I tilted my head, some snow falling from my dark brown waves and curls of hair.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, "Shouldn't you be at home in the warmth?"

My answer riled the little Italian boy, making him stomp a little foot, glaring foully at me. Actually, it was too cute to call anything but a pout, though his eyes narrowed at me as though he were trying to appear frightening.

"Fuck you!" he responded angrily, "I can be wherever the fuck I want!"

Ceasing in my strumming of cold steel strings, I let my guitar rest in my lap, legs crossed as I sat up a bit straighter, not leaning on the dirty wall behind me as much.

"You have quite a mouth on you for a little boy," I said in amusement, not even concerned when the little thing snarled at me, yanking down his scarf with a gloved hand to stick his tongue out at me.

"If you're not careful, your tongue will freeze off in this weather," I teased, receiving a rude little gesture in return.

"Fuck you!"

Sighing, my breath forming a translucent cloud before my lips, I gave a shake of the head, leaning back against the wall, adjusting the fingerless gloves I wore on my hands as a little shiver trickled down my spine.

"What are you doing here by yourself?" I tried again, studying the impatient shift of the boy's feet, his slightly hunched posture and that nervous and angry look in his eyes. Such a fiery child…

"What the fuck does it matter to you?" the boy huffed, crossing his arms once more as he began to rub them for frictional warmth.

"It's cold and getting dark. There are creepy people on the streets around this time, you know?" I warned with the same gentle smile.

"You mean creepy fuckers like you?"

Oh, _ouch_…

"How mean, no! Not like me!" I whined with a laugh, shifting a tad to stretch my long legs out before me, only vaguely noticing the child eying me warily. I was more focused on my poor legs which had begun to cramp from sitting in the same position for hours. But now, all stretched out, they were unprotected from the temperature by my body.

"Then I don't get what you mean," the boy grumbled, narrowed eyes trailing over me in a not so subtle inspection, "You look like shit."

That was one way to put my appearance.

I wore a worn light green turtleneck made of once thick cotton, a pastel green jumper with a hood hanging down my back atop of that, and a dark green long coat to top it off. My fingerless gloves were a faded black and beginning to tear at the hems, already having a hole in one palm from where it had caught on something some time ago. They went up just past my wrist, but the jumper sleeves thankfully covered just a little bit over my wrist to catch any chills. My pants were probably the part that made me look, as the boy had so _delicately_ put it, "like shit". They were olive green, but ripped and frayed a bit at the hem and a bit dirty. There was a patch in the knee where I had haphazardly tried to stitch it back together and my bare ankles could be seen from the length, or, slight lack thereof. My poor feet were in no better condition, fitted in old once-were-black shoes that looked like they had certainly seen better days.

All in all, I wasn't the classiest looking man around right now.

"Why are you sitting on the fucking street like a loser?"

I smiled to the boy, brushing some of my bangs and snowflakes from my face.

"I'm busking," I replied easily.

A little eyebrow quirked, showing the boy was confused.

"What the fuck is that?"

I laughed at the bizarre sweetness of the puzzled voice. I couldn't help it—children were so cute!

"It's where you do something out on the streets, and people give you money if you're any good at it," I explained, holding up my guitar slightly, "I play the guitar and sing."

"Oh." It seemed the Italian got it. Taking a few small steps forward, the boy stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, narrowing his eyes to glance into my guitar case.

"So you must play as shit as you look if the money is anything to go by."

My own eyes fell down to the rather pitiful quantity of money in the velvety ruby interior of my case, counting the few notes and coins to add up to something a little over fifteen Euros. Not the biggest I'd seen after a day of busking.

Laughing, I turned my attention back to the boy who was glaring at me once more.

"Not many people are out today. It's cold, so everyone has gone hiding in their nice warm and cosy homes," I explained, bending down and reaching over to tug the tongue of my slip-on shoe further up my foot, trying to protect the exposed skin from the bitter cold.

The Italian frowned, watching my hand briefly before looking back up at my face.

"So why are _you_ still out here?"

Pausing for a moment, I gave a gentle smile to the boy, moving one leg so it was bent at the knee, foot on the ground, while the other crossed beneath my body. Resting my arm against me knee and holding my guitar close to me, I replied.

"It's because I'm a grown up. What about you? Where's your family?"

The boy's face soured right up again, glare directing itself at the ground at my feet. In all honesty, if looks could kill, the poor cracked cement would have a hole burnt in it. It seemed it wasn't a very nice topic for the child, so naturally I wanted to drop it, but, he was a child, after all, and children wandering about the streets of Spain alone, at twilight no less, was worrisome.

As a responsible adult, I couldn't let him just wander off by himself.

I kept my eyes on the flushed and angry face, and suddenly I was struck with the image of a tomato. I can't logically explain why it hit me so suddenly, but the cute little round face with chubby cheeks, flushed from cold and what seemed to be anger was utterly adorable.

"It's none of your fucking business, old man," he spat at me after a few moments of silence.

"I'm not old!" I protested, pouting myself.

The boy shot a scowl at me from the corner of his eyes, not turning his head to face me as he scoffed, his breath fogging before his little pale lips.

"You look it, grandpa."

"Aww, how mean! You're only saying that because you're little and young," I replied, my bottom lip jutting out further.

"I am not little!" The boy shouted as he turned his body to face me, stomping his little boot covered foot, shoulders hunched and a curious curl of hair twisting and becoming jagged to the left of a part in his hair.

"But you are! Look at you! I bet you're not even five years old~!" I teased with a light smirk.

"I am fucking too!" the boy shrieked back indignantly.

"No you're not~!"

"Yes I fucking am!"

"No way~!"

"I'm fucking eight, you old bastardo!"

I blinked in surprise. Eight? What was a little eight year old doing alone here?

"I'm eighteen."

It was only fair that I told him my age in exchange for his, even if I had cheated it out of him. Such a cute child…

"See, I'm not that old," I laughed, lifting a hand up to brush some snow from my shoulders, "Ah… And my name's Antonio. What's yours?"

Grumbling for a moment, the kid wrapped his long burgundy coloured coat around him tighter.

"Why do you care?" he asked with a frown.

I smiled, placing my guitar down in its case, covering the morsel of money I'd received that day.

"I'd like to know the name of the boy who I'll help home," I spoke as I closed the case, zipping it shut.

"No!"

Startled, I looked back up at the boy who had stepped forward, only to seem to halt himself.

"Just… I… Um…" Face flushing a bright red, the boy scowled to the side once more, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I don't want you to know where I live, fucking creeper."

Oh, was that the problem?

"I can take you to the police station and they can take you home instead?" I suggested, tilting my head, blinking innocently up at him.

"I said no!" the boy shouted at me, shoulders hunching and eyes shutting.

I can't really say that the next few moments were pleasant. They were filled with the awkwardness of his outburst, the whistle of the wind and the uncertainty of what to say next. I wasn't exactly sure what I _could_ say, and thankfully, I didn't have to think of something to fill the silence, because he spoke up once more.

"S-So… You play the guitar?"

In that moment, even though I didn't quite understand it, I knew that maybe all he needed was to talk, if only for a while.

"Sí, I play the guitar. Want to hear me play?" I asked with a bright smile, taking the instrument back out from the case with care. I treat my precious guitar like it's made of fragile porcelain and glass, you know? It's my one most valued and loved treasure.

"No," he grumbled, though he took a step closer anyway as I set the guitar up in my lap with a smile.

"Do you have any favourite songs?" I asked, giving the strings a gentle strum with my fingers, looking up at the child.

Shrugging, he reached up a gloved hand to rub at his nose and frowned.

"I don't know. Just play what you were playing before, bastardo."

If he wanted to hear me play, then I would play for him. Picking up the song from where I had left it off, my guitar broke the stillness of the streets with melodious chords and sweet harmonies, blown away with the wind to be carried wherever they could. I kept my eyes on the boy, briefly studying his black pants tucked snugly past the cream fluff of his brown boots, his dark blue-black scarf wrapped thick and warm around his little neck, and the large and puffed out burgundy coat that was stopped above the knees.

Such a fancy brand name too, I could tell. It was high quality fabric, and undoubtedly expensive.

My eyes trailed back up to the boy's face as I played, admiring the small lips set downward, round cheeks dusted crimson with a little nose- small but straight- at the centre of his face, chilled from cold. His little eyebrows were drawn down into a scowl above his eyes, and now that he was closer, I could see the amber colour with flecks of gold and hazel. Such a unique colour… Strands of brown hair fell across his light olive skin, cut in a neat and short style, but what caught my eye about it was the wayward curl to the left.

It was such a curious strand, in a perfect curl at the end but otherwise straight and long, dipped slightly and faintly frazzled, more than likely from the wind.

I continued to watch as I played my song, smiling happily as the child took tiny step after tiny step closer towards me, as though he thought he was being subtle about it.

"Lovino."

I blinked up at him, a confused expression on my face, continuing to strum the frigid strings.

"My name… bastardo… It… It's Lovino."

Such a soft voice, but the name flowed with the notes and seemed to blend with the beauty of sun, warmth and wide open fields. It was like this boy—Lovino—was made for this song.

Suddenly, I found our surroundings very unfitting.

The snow that fell on our bodies was too cold, and the clouds overhead that darkened the sky to a deep blue-grey, obscuring the stars and moon, made too gloomy a backdrop. The streets were a cold and miserable grey, and the only warmth that could be found was the street lamps that emitted bursts of gold, scattered along the street and down the path that led into the park across the road, winding through trees and greenery.

It wasn't right, but it was still beautiful. The way that his face seemed to glow in the little light despite his frown and how he just stood out as something perfect in a city that was anything other than flawless had me entranced.

I loved Spain, I truly did, but I'd be fooling myself if I pretended that the streets weren't dirty with litter and cigarette butts and sometimes stained with graffiti.

"Lovino," I repeated, rolling the name off my tongue, smiling brighter as he twitched and scowled, cheeks flushing to the colour of a ripe tomato while I laughed, "What a beautiful name."

Amber eyes widened and an angry look deepened in the little Italian's face.

"C-Che cazzo! Fuck you bastardo! It is not!" he shouted, darting forward the last metre and a half to kick me in the shin. I let out a little yelp of surprise, ceasing the melody to grip my leg, watching as the boy ran off down the dark streets. I couldn't help but laugh.

Such a strange child…

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><p>… <em>Thinking back… It was on that day… I must have fallen in love…<em>

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><p><em><strong>Thank you all for reading Chapter One of "Busking For Hearts"! If you want to see Chapter Two and the rest of this story completed, please leave a review! (Seriously, the amount of pushing we had to do to push this one to commit to writing something again and posting it up was a challenge. Without motivation, she stops and slacks off!) Either way, I'd love to know what you think! I'm a bit rusty on writing fanfics due to uni being busy and living out of home (and general slackness), but I'd love some constructive criticism if you have some! (Flames will be used to fuel our stove and oven to keep this one fed though.) Hope to see you next chapter guys! :)<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello everyone and thank you for patiently waiting! I won't blabber on too much, but I do wish to apologise for taking forever and a day to update Busking For Hearts. This was all the fault of my university work load and my shitty health. (She got a new doctor last month and already he knows her off by heart, if that says anything.) Thank you to everyone who has reviewed thus far, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Hopefully its size will make up for the amount of time you had to wait for it, haha! Anyway, without further ado, enjoy Chapter Two of Busking For Hearts! **_

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

The snow was thicker than the day before.

It had begun to coat the streets in a fine white powdered blanket, dusting the trees in dainty and soft specks, dipping the temperature down to a negative six overnight. The news broadcasts on the televisions I passed by in stores all reported yet again another break in records of the coldest day in December, surpassing yesterday's chill by yet another few degrees.

I merely shook my head and continued to make my way down the streets of Spain, taking in the evening sounds of restaurants opening for business and stores closing down for the day. People walked the streets in somewhat of a hurry, eager to catch the bus or get into their cars to return home.

I'd just gotten myself some dinner (a cheap paella from a vendor I had discovered came from somewhere off near Valencia, making it quite an authentic dish that quenched the hunger my stomach had held onto the whole day) when I spotted a little figure standing alone on the corner of Paseo del Prado and Pallo de las Huertas, glaring about the emptying streets.

It certainly stopped me in my tracks, my guitar case slung over one shoulder and holding lightly onto its strap, the wind blowing my dark curls in front of my face, occasionally flicking close to my eyes.

It took a while for the boy to spot me, jumping when he did, but then his expression quickly returned to that of a scowl, crossing his arms in a huff and glaring at me.

"You're late, bastardo!" he shouted, levelling me with what I'm sure he intended to be a threatening snarl.

I laughed, shaken from my surprise as I walked towards the little brunette, moving towards my usual spot facing the Jardín Botánico de Madrid.

"Lo siento, lo siento, I didn't know you would be waiting for me," I chuckled, removing the guitar from my back and setting it onto the ground, sitting myself down casually next to it.

Lovino harrumphed and narrowed his eyes at me, long and dark lashes making the amber stand out against his skin.

"Whatever. I wasn't waiting, bastardo," he grumbled, round cheek puffing out cutely, "Anyway, not that I care, but where the hell were you?"

"Just getting something to eat," I explained, lifting up the little plastic bag I held in my hands, placing it beside me.

Amber eyes narrowed as Lovino leant forward to inspect the contents of what had been my dinner.

"What the hell is that?" the boy grumbled, quirking an eyebrow curiously.

"Paella," I replied.

"And… that is…?"

I gasped dramatically, though I was actually genuinely surprised by his answer.

"You don't know what paella is?"

A little shake of the head and a scowl was my response.

"I wouldn't be asking you if I already knew what it was, idiota!"

I couldn't help but laugh, even though it did make his face flush and eyebrows draw together tighter in aggravation.

"Quit laughing at me! Cazzo!" he shouted, stomping a foot.

"Lo siento, I just think it's so cute!" I managed to get out between light-hearted giggles, "I don't know many people who don't know what paella is."

"So? Tell me so I can know too, bastardo!"

"It's a rice dish- it's this yellow colour because of the saffron in it. It's just rice, green vegetables, meat and spices," I explained, reaching into the little plastic bag for the container of my almost finished dinner, popping the lid open, allowing the Italian to peek inside, "It's not terribly complicated, but it does take some skill to make."

I held the plastic container out further, smiling.

"Would you like a taste, Lovi?"

"You're not trying to—Cazzo! What!"

Lovino took a startled step back, looking rather infuriated.

"Qué?" I blinked up at him, bringing the dish back closer to myself, lidding it once more to prevent the remainder of its heat from escaping, "What's wrong?"

"Who the fuck said you could call me that!" he shrieked indignantly.

"What? 'Lovi'?" I asked, tilting my head.

"Yes, 'Lovi', you fucking retard- don't fucking call me that!" he shouted, "Now shut up and play your damn guitar!"

I laughed, placing down my food so I can open up the case easier, sitting my guitar in my lap.

"This is the second day in a row you're coming back to me," I began, strumming the instrument a few times as my eyes fell on the Italian, now clad in a different designer coat of roughly the same burgundy colour, "Do you have a crush on me?"

There was a teasing twinkle in the emerald of my eye which seemed to catch the little brunette's attention and cause him to scowl. Well… Scowl _more_.

"Tch! As if! Who would have a crush on a dirty street busker like you, idiota!" he snapped, amber eyes narrowed at me as he nudged his foot against my leg a few times, the boy's focus on my pants, "Speaking of dirty, you're wearing the same clothes again. I haven't seen you wear anything different. That's gross. You should change and wash them or something or you'll start smelling like trash."

As much as I wished I could, that wasn't something I could easily do…

"So why do you keep coming back to this dirty ol' street performer, hm?" I asked with a quirk of my eyebrow and lazy smile, a few notes humming from the strings of my guitar as I strummed them, "You say you've never seen me wear anything different, as though today isn't the second time you've seen me."

The Italian flushed a bright red, distracted from his previous topic as he stumbled over his words and spluttered. In the end, all he could choke out was a "Shut the fuck up, bastardo! C-Cazzo!"

It was then I noticed his little curl had grown frazzled once more and twitched as he'd become flustered.

The urge to touch it became quite extraordinary.

Now, that isn't to say I go about touching little children- that's not my hobby at all, you're mistaken! But the little curl had me utterly fascinated.

"Lovi, what's that?" I asked, giving a little gesture to the curl with my strumming hand.

The Italian deadpanned, lowering his eyes.

"Hair, fucker- most people have it growing from their heads. Geez, if all buskers are this stupid, I'm going to start giving them some money for school," he muttered.

I smiled and shook my head, gesturing him to come closer.

"No, no! That there! Your hair!"

The child seemed thoroughly confused now, if not a bit concerned that there was something wrong with his hair and he reached up and began to pat about, searching for what could possibly be wrong.

"What is it?"

"There!"

"Where! I feel nothing wrong with it, damn it!"

"You're missing it!"

"I don't fucking feel anything!"

"Just come here and I'll show you!"

With an angry harrumph, Lovino stepped closer, hands still touching about his skull, all but missing the strange curl each time.

"Where is it, bastardo?" he asked, bending down slightly, looking up and slightly cross eyed to look at his fringe. The curl was so close now! I guess I had to show him in the end.

"This right here!"

With that, I reached out and curled cold fingers around the stray hair, twisting it slightly and giving it a gentle pull. Lovino's face went completely red, his amber eyes widening in shock and he took a sharp inhalation of breath, letting out a "Ch-_Chigi_!"

I'm pretty sure he head-butt me. Right on the forehead in between the eyes. Because one moment, I held the curl between my fingers, and the next, my head stung and my back had hit the wall behind me, causing me to release the stray hair with a slight yelp, instantly reaching up to cover the injured area.

That was the second time he'd hit me. This one hurt considerably more than the kick to the shin.

"P-Pervert! Don't touch that!"

W-Wait—_pervert?_

"I'm not a pervert!" I whined, cracking open an eye to look up at him, still holding my forehead, "I just want to know why your hair is doing that!"

"It's doing it because it is! Don't fucking touch it!" he snapped back, face still aflame and a look of flustered rage about him.

I made a slight face, lips downturned and kept my eyes on the curl. "But _why_ can't I touch it?"

Lovino snarled. "Geez, how old are you? You're bitching like—"

The sentence stopped halfway, and the Italian's head snapped to the side, suddenly very alert. My eyebrows scrunched together in concern, looking first at him, and then in the direction he was looking. Had he heard something?

It seemed he had, because he took one glance at me and scoffed, taking a few steps away in the opposite direction to where he had looked.

"Tch, cazzo," he muttered, probably to himself. All I could do was blink up at him in confusion, still holding my forehead, and then, in a flash, he was gone without another word, darting off down the road and turning into the first side street he passed. I tilted my head, craning it to glance off in the direction he ran, frowning slightly. He'd left without a word. Even though it didn't really bother me terribly, it did strike me as odd.

I should have been more concerned, especially when I watched a small group of men walk past in fancy suits a minute later, sparing me only a single filthy glance. I smiled at them politely, lowering my hands from my Lovino-battle-wound and gave a nod of acknowledgement, only for them to snort and walk off down the street, presumably to continue doing, well, rich, suited man type stuff.

I watched on in silence, curious before I glanced back down at my cold food and silent guitar in my lap. Somehow, it was somewhat lonesome without the fiery Italian.

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><p><em>It's pretty stupid that my only thought at the time was that it was odd that the men were all wearing sunglasses this late in the evening…<em>

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><p>Many days—<em>weeks<em> passed the way they always did, but with a small breath of fresh air, so to speak, twisting it to make the hours tick by a bit easier, and made the smile on my face that little bit brighter.

Every morning, I'd wake, get myself ready and go back to my usual spot and play my guitar. The days got colder and colder, and thick blankets of snow began to coat the streets at an alarming rate. The park across the road from where I sat had turned into fluffy white shapes that resembled the park, and manoeuvring the streets around it had become something of a mission and a chore when they didn't get cleaned. It was difficult stepping on the pavement, which had often crystallised and frozen over to become a free ice skating rink for those without grip on the bottom of their shoes.

I found myself slipping and skidding a bit too much for my liking, and my poor rear felt like it had been rammed by a truck for all the times I'd fallen over as I tried to walk a bit too fast.

I suppose that could be blamed on my eagerness.

Like a routine had been set up, I would arrive at the road across from the park and play my guitar, the cheerful and melodic tunes softly begging passersby to drop in some money—even half a Euro would make my heart flutter in happiness and I would chirp out a gracious thank you to the kind soul. During winter, things were harder. No one wished to leave their warm houses, and not many people liked this snow.

They were used to hot Barcelona nights filled with passion and skimpier clothing as the tango and salsa brought them to new heats as the drums beat their hearts with their rhythm. They were used to fresh fruit served with ice cream in a cute and chic café in Madrid as their hair blew gently in the summer breeze. They had become accustomed to tanning along the coastline of San Sebastián at the beach of Costa del Sol, and holding their lover's hand as they walked beside the romantic view of the stars, moon and city lights kissing in the reflection of the ocean water.

That was when I received the most money; filling people's hearts with the happiness they felt through the day and expressing it through my fingers and the strings of my beloved guitar.

In the winter time, no one dared venture into the cold and miserable hued outdoors, and I suffered for it.

But I played on, because Lovino came to watch me play…

That beautiful boy with the scowl on his face, who would sit beside me, entranced and glare at the road before him. Often, I would look over to him when he shifted, and I would sometimes be graced with a softer expression as he got lost in the music's sighs and calls of my guitar.

I loved it when Lovino lost himself in the world my hands weaved for him.

When he caught me staring (which would always happen, because I simply couldn't turn away from him once I was captured by that almost serene and youthful expression), he would snap at me, turn bright red in the face, curse and a few times smack me on the arms, but I would only laugh.

_Cute_.

That was all I could think when I watched him day after day, appearing each time in new designer clothing. A part of me felt guilty for thinking that if he had so much money for all those clothes, could he not spare me a few Euros for lunch? I chastised myself for that thought instantly after I had it, reprimanding that horrible side of me. Lovino had no money—it was his parents, and I certainly couldn't go coaxing a child to beg his mother and father for money to give to some poor old busker like myself. It wasn't right. I _did_ have a sense of morality, you know.

Though he never gave me a single coin or note, nor even a kind word, I played on for him, sometimes putting words to my songs in my native tongue of Spanish, the R's rolling off naturally and vibrating on my tongue, the Castilian accent heavily laced in the velvet my voice became when I sang.

Lovino had pointed out my accent with a frown, surprising me by turning quite suddenly and blurting out "You do realise you have a _lisp_?"

My immediate reactions were to laugh and coo over him, pinch his adorable red cheeks and explain that that was simply how Spanish was spoken here in central and northern parts of España. He'd smacked me for that, threatening if I pinched his cheeks again, he was cutting off my fingers and feeding them to me through my nostrils.

I still have yet to learn how to listen.

He still has yet to cut off my fingers.

I could feel him becoming more and more relaxed with me every day we met, and the distance between us was slowly closing. He was such a naïve boy, yet not easily trusting. I was glad that he trusted me. At least, trusted me enough to sit beside me and listen to my endless chattering.

I'd talk about anything that came to mind, and ask him questions, but usually his responses consisted of non-verbal grunts or "Cazzo, do you ever shut up?"

By the time a whole month had passed, my heart would find itself in an excited rush when I saw him approaching me, or waiting for me at the road by the park that glittered a magical white.

Today held no exception, and I skid and slipped along the roads in my hurry, guitar banging against my hip in its protective case as I swerved around a corner like I had skates on my feet, stopping myself from falling only by catching myself on a lamp post and twirling like a professional skater.

I haven't skated a day in my life. It's only by miracle I made it to Lovino without breaking my neck.

Without hesitation, I moved on over to the little brunette standing on his own, looking about at the park, dark blue coat fluffed up with the layers of clothing beneath it to protect him from the sharp bite of winter's winds.

"Lovi~!" I cried out happily, skidding towards the boy and scooping him up in my arms, promptly tumbling back onto my hind, earning a surprised squeak from him.

"Did I keep you waiting long~? Lo siento~!" I cooed, rubbing my cheek up against the cold red face.

"Cosa?" the voice chirped back.

I froze, pulling my head back enough to stare at the tufts of brown hair. Oh dear… Was I mistaken? Brown hair, though a lighter shade than Lovino's now that I inspected it up close, the same curl, but, flipped on the other side, big brown eyes and a slightly more upturned ski jump nose on a face that belonged to a child no more than four years old.

This was not Lovino.

I was hugging a random child in my lap.

I was hugging a random child in my lap that was not Lovino.

I'm a creeper.

Thankfully, I wasn't hit, nor did the little unknown Lovino look-a-like scream or cry, but instead smiled brightly. Oh dios mios… This boy was just so… so… _cute_!

"You know my-a fratello?" the boy squeaked, and when he twisted in my lap to hug me around the neck, I melted. Father in Heaven, don't think me a bad man for enjoying this, but I'm just so happy that I'm not being hauled into prison for touching a child I just met!

"Ah, your fratello?" I asked with a smile, "Lovino is your brother?"

The kid nodded enthusiastically, identical mirror sided curl bouncing for all the happiness and jerky movements. "Sì!" he chirped, "Lovino is-a my fratello~!"

I'm going to die from cute overload here, someone call an ambulance before my heart stops! Por favor!

"Sí, I know Lovi- he comes to see me often," I replied, crossing my legs beneath me, "I was actually going on my way to see him now. He should be here soon."

Those brown eyes lit up in joy, round cheeks lifting with the smile. "Ve~! I'm-a so happy!"

So am I, kid. So am I.

"Fratello has-a been going out-a-side to play, but then he comes-a back late and-a does-a not say where he's gone to mamma and-a papa," he spoke in slow and stilted broken English, starting to play with the collar of my shirt. Is it wrong of me to think the thick Italian accent is oddly attractive? Only if I'm thinking that of a child… What is becoming of me?

"Mmm, he's been coming to listen to me play my guitar and sing," I explained, reaching back to pat my beloved instrument. Praise the Lord it was unharmed when I felt like spontaneously throwing myself on the ground in my rush.

"You play-a guitar?" he asked, eyes sparkling like the reflection of the moon in a creamy caramel hot chocolate that's been speckled with golden stars.

Nodding, I gave him a little pat on the leg to hop up, reaching back to undo the strap of my guitar, unzipping the case and dusting it of flecks of snow. The boy seemed enraptured by the instrument and watched in silence as I placed it in my lap. I strummed it once before beginning a gentle song, fingers plucking noises from it like a well known lover, sighing happily as it called out to the sunny blue sky its pleasure in how I played it like I was born for it, and it was carved for me and only me.

I easily became lost in the music, unaware my eyes had closed until I heard a soft voice joining my guitar. Immediately, I looked up, watching as the boy sung softly, yet confidently, in a mix of Latin-Italian through an angel's voice. I was ensnared in the perfect tones that matched mine, and a bright smile burst forth on my lips, granted this little peek into heaven.

What a voice…

Don't ask how long I sat there with a stupid grin on my face. I wouldn't be able to tell you. All I knew was I played his music, and he sung until the song melted away into a mutual end, leaving me staring in awe.

"You have a beautiful voice," I breathed after a while of silence and he blushed, eyes closing with a simple "Ve~".

Shifting the guitar about my lap, my smile grew, white teeth flashing as I tilted my head, some brown strands tickling my cheek. "You and Lovi certainly don't act alike at all," I commented. By now, Lovino would have kicked me at least once, if not whacked me with his little gloved hands.

The Italian shrugged, turning his head to look down the streets, smile sad. "No. But I do love-a my fratello," he spoke, and the honesty seared me like a hot plate. In this whole month, Lovino had never mentioned he had a brother. In fact, his family never cropped up in conversation at all…

"Ah, fratello…!"

I turned to glance over in the direction he was looking, my smile's glow dulling at the look on Lovino's face. There he stood, just on the corner of the street he must have walked in from, amber eyes wide and frown carved deep, little lips parted and staring in what seemed to me to be a mix of fury, hurt and betrayal.

He said not a single word as he turned, sprinting off the direction he'd come from, earning a surprised cry from the little boy beside me.

"Fratello!" he shouted out before stumbling off and running after the older Italian.

What on earth had just happened?

Though I didn't know, I still felt I had to be responsible. Who would let two little children run about the streets alone? I had to question the parents and what they were doing, letting their sons wander about without supervision. Anything could happen to the poor things!

Stuffing my guitar as quickly as I could into its case, I zipped it up, tossed it onto my back and scampered up and bolted after them. They were children, and I was an adult—how far could they get?

_Please don't let the police see me running after two children, please don't let the police see me running after two children, please don't let the police see me running after two children…!_

I swear I chased them for a good kilometre about the zigzagged alleyways. No, the streets didn't zigzag—_they_ did.

The icy air sliced at my lungs like a knife, and I had to surrender when I lost sight of them for the fourth time, bending over with hands on my knees as I panted, some sweat rolling down my long nose. Those two could really book it like the devil was on their tails! What sporty children! I was too old for this…

Wiping at my brow, I leant against the edge of an alley between a shop and an antique store, hoping to catch my breath, only for a second believing my ears had deceived me when I heard a small hiccup and the shaky breath of someone nearby. Turning to look down the alley, I took a cautious step in, frowning and squinting slightly, searching for the source of the noise. I had to be careful—it could be mafia or some other gang member lurking nearby, or even someone pumped with drugs or alcohol. Those people still existed, which was a sad thought.

When I neared the origin of the sound, I smiled and my face softened, huffing out a breath. Thank goodness it was none of those previous options.

"What are you doing here, Lovi? You'll get your pretty coat all dirty."

Lovino's head snapped up, amber eyes looking furiously up at me, glistening with liquid crystals that rolled hot and slow down bright red cheeks. Hastily, the Italian wiped at them with the sleeve of his coat, standing up from his curled position behind a trashcan, but before he could bolt off, I moved in and gently grabbed his arm.

Ah… he was rather thin here…

"Let go of me, bastardo!" he shrieked, voice cracking faintly as he tugged on his arm, refusing to look at me, "I'll call the police!"

Ah, that was something I didn't want, and I sincerely hoped he wouldn't follow through with this threat. I'd much rather him rip out my eyes and squish them beneath his shoe, as he'd said he would do when he caught me staring one time.

"Lovi, just listen to me, por favor! Why are you running away like this from your brother?" I asked desperately, refusing to let go, even as he yanked, kicking his little booted feet against the ground before he slipped, only not meeting the hard and icy cement because I kept my grip on his arm, pulling him back up to his feet.

"If you like him so much, why don't you go back to Feliciano! I saw the way you thought he was just the best thing in the world!"

I blinked.

"Feliciano?"

Was that his brother's name?

"Lovi, hey, listen to me, listen," I cooed gently, pulling him back gently, placing my hands on his shoulders. They were so large compared to his littler body, and I was surprised that he still struggled given our size difference. Such a persistent little flame.

"Why are you so angry? Come on; look at me, por favor…"

His little struggles grew weaker, but when I pulled him closer, he turned and lashed out at me, little clenched hands bashing at my chest, and only then did I realise he was really crying. The angry little boy looked utterly pitiable, so determined to cause me harm.

"Lovino," I tried again, interrupted by a little hiccupping sob.

"Everyone likes him better than me… Why would you be any different?" he cried out, continuing to swing his little fists, "You like him more too, I bet! You like him more than me!"

A smiled, my eyes softening as I shook my head. I saw what was going on; sibling rivalry, jealousy and inferiority.

"No. I don't like him more than you, and as great as he may seem, I see better in you," I spoke easily, watching his face for signs of surrender, "I was so excited to see you, I made the mistake of hugging him instead. There's no need to run away like this and worry me."

Lovino's fists slowed and he sniffled, trying to hide some of the snot that had begun to dribble from his nose, cheeks a brighter red than a tomato from all his crying.

"If you wanted to sing with me, then you should have said so," I pressed on, gently wiping at his tears with music-calloused fingers, "Let me hear your beautiful voice, Lovi."

The Italian gave another hit before leaving his hand against my chest, small fist opening up to splay his hand on the dirtied green of my coat before it moved away, both hands now wiping at his eyes, hiding his face from my view. In his own way, he was very cute as well, just like his brother, but Lovino was special.

"I just want something to be mine that he can't take from me… I want to be special too," he whispered, crying into his gloves, standing still before me, no longer trying to run away.

I smiled more, bringing him into my arms in a warm embrace, startling him, for he stiffened in my hold.

"You are special, Lovi," I breathed so only he could hear, and I distinctly heard his breath hitch against my ear, "You're special to me."

I let Lovino cry his heart out on my shoulder, uncaring my clothes were being dirtied by snot, saliva and tears. Let them be. They would be cleaned. Those small arms around my neck were tight and I didn't even care how loud he was being so close to my eardrums- I was just grateful he was no longer running away from me.

As he cried, I looked up at the sky, wondering how in this beautiful and corrupt world, no one had held him like this, or whispered that he was special, and I thought to the type of people his and Feliciano's parents must be. What were they like, to neglect a child like this? It could have been an act of rebellion for all I knew; a cry for attention, but for a child to seek that attention from a strange man who played music on the streets meant that there was an extreme lack of communication at the very least.

When the little Italian in my arms managed to calm down, I lifted him up, one arm looped around beneath his rear and the back of his legs, the other around his back with my hand resting on his head. He made a small squeak at the noise and lifted his head up a bit, but only gripped onto me tighter.

"What are you doing bastardo?" he choked out, giving me a weak hearted glare.

I smiled, leaving the small alley slowly, cradling the brunette in my arms.

"I'm buying you hot chocolate and some churros… I want to see this special boy's smile," I spoke confidently, looking ahead at the snowy streets, walking tall through the crowd with the boy in my arms and my guitar across my back.

Lovino stared for a while longer- I could feel his amber eyes burning me-, and then he buried his face back into my neck again, uttering a soft "Idiota…"

* * *

><p><em>I must have imagined the small upturn of his lips, but the way his hands tightened in my clothes was undeniable…<em>

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><p><em><strong>Oh dear, forgive any OOCness that may have sprung up this chapter, but, I hope you all enjoyed that! Stay tuned for more of Busking For Hearts! (If you enjoyed it, leave a review and let this idiot author know- it makes her stupidly and annoyingly happy.) Hopefully the next update will be a lot quicker than this one!<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

_**OH MY GOODNESS, YES I AM ALIVE. (Brace yourselves, here come the excuses.) No. No excuses. I was studying, applying for student abroad, had health issues, real life dramas, and went on holidays to Japan for a month. **_**_(This author here, really. You guys wait patiently for an update and she's off gallivanting in Japan giving questionable glances at girls in maid outfits, climbing ten million sets of stairs to temples and shrines, and looking up the skirts of figurines to check for panties.) In all seriousness, the last few months were hectic. BUT, on the plus side, I got accepted for study abroad so I don't have to work so hard, I wrote a lot in Japan whilst on holidays, and I've grown a set of balls to tell people when they're pissing me off. (Shucks my influences on this girl are fabulous.)_**

**_Anyway, now that that's out of the way, WELCOME BACK READERS FOR CHAPTER THREE OF BUSKING FOR HEARTS! (*Cracks a party popper* Le joy.) This one took ages, but, it's, uh... (Fucking huge.) Yeah. So I hope the length makes up for the delay... (You've got something else regarding the story you want to say, don't you?) Oh yes! A few more things. _**

**_PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING AS THEY ARE IMPORTANT._**

**_One: There is a _HUGE_ inconsistency in this story that will only become apparent to those who do a bit of research, and you'll only be able to tell later on unless you squint now. Don't spoil it if you know, just send me a PM if you think you might know, because the first reader to notice AND explain why it's wrong will get a prize. (Maybe. And only if they're correct on BOTH.) I really tried to make everything as accurate as possible for what I'm going for, but then I derped pretty hard and to make it easier for you guys, and also myself because it's hard to find information on this one little but vital thing, I'm leaving it as is. I doubt most of you will notice anyway, but it's just something that will bug me forever now. *Sigh* There's a few more derps, but, I hadn't planned the story out far when I wrote said things, so, as much as it irks me, I'm letting them slide._**

**_Two: I am extremely aware of your concerns regarding the age difference between Antonio and Lovino. Rest assured, I plan to handle this tastefully and later on, hopefully you'll feel less apprehensive once you understand what I'll be doing. (No details now or giant spoilers. Just trust this idiot for now, m'kay?) I do appreciate that people are expressing their concern because, hey, this is the internet, and who has morals on the internet these days? But in all seriousness, there will be NO PAEDOPHILIA in this story. Now, that does not mean that there will be no relationship. Look up the definition of a paedophile in Wikipedia- none of that will be happenin'. _**

**_Three: If there is any ten year olds reading my story, please read the Author's Notes at the beginning and end of every chapter. They contain warnings and notes I find important. I don't write them here for the word count or to be annoying. I have no control over who reads what, and all I can do is state in bold and italicised letters when things above PG are gonna happen. If you don't read these warnings or pay attention to the rating changes- of which there will be-, I am not at fault if you are "scarred before your time". If you're that concerned, have a parent sit and read with you. But, honestly, what is a ten year old doing watching Hetalia and then going onto fanfic websites? That's questionable itself, but hey, I'm no one's mother so I have no rights to lecture. _**

**_Four: I don't care what the rating will be in the future, the rating will reflect the story rating to the most recent chapter, but IT WILL BE UPGRADED TO M for various reasons in the future. PLEASE KEEP AN EYE ON THIS AND READ MY WARNINGS BEFORE READING THE CHAPTERS I POST. I will not be held liable for you not reading them._**

**_Rant over. (Thank fuck. We don't care.) Now, all srs bzns aside, please enjoy Chapter Three of Busking For Hearts~! _**

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

We shared a hot chocolate and a plate of churros that day, Lovino and I.

I made sure to request extra sugar with caramel and chocolate dipping sauce alike for the churros, and got a table just for the two of us in the café I had found on a particularly chilly winter's day a few years ago. It was a small thing; nice and homey and warm, easily passable if you weren't looking. Business was slow, but they served the best quality of food I'd ever tasted by staff that had the kindest attitudes. It was run by an elderly couple who made everything by hand that very day, and any leftovers at the end were given away to the homeless and needy.

"Aquí tienes, Antonio. Dos chocolates calientes y un plato de churros con salsa chocolate y caramel," the elderly lady spoke, placing the tray with churros first on the table before me and Lovino, then the two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

"Gracias," I thanked her with a smile, wrapping my chilled hands around the mug, warming and thawing out my fingers.

"De nada," she replied kindly, her smile crinkling about her eyes as she turned and hobbled away slowly back to behind the counters.

I took a small sip of the hot chocolate, sighing happily, turning to look at the boy opposite of me who sat with his shoulders rigid and up to his ears, frown on his red face and watching me intently. I laughed, lowering the mug from my lips and placed it on the table, my hands still wrapped about it for warmth. My gloves needed replacing or re-stitching.

"What are you frowning for? My treat; eat up," I encouraged, plucking up a churro and dipping it in caramel sauce before taking a bite, nearly burning my tongue on its molten heat.

"Mmmf, bueno," I hummed as I fanned my mouth, chewing before swallowing, "Try some! They're very tasty, and I assure you they're not poisoned."

Lovino lowered his eyes to the food before sniffling, turning his glare to the pale outdoors, staring through the window by his seat. "I don't want it, bastardo," he grumbled.

I tilted my head, nudging the plate closer. "Porqué? Try some," I encouraged.

He shot me a scowl. "I fucking told you, I don't want any!"

Sighing and slumping in my seat, I gave the other an exasperated look. "Where on earth did you pick up such language from, honestly?" I asked. Rhetorically it seemed, for I didn't get an answer. I decided to try again.

"Lovi, when did you start learning English?"

"None of your fucking business, you whore."

I huffed, cocking my elbow on the table as I rest my chin in my hand, tilting my head to the side, some brown curls tickling my cheek which I brushed aside languidly.

"I bought these for you. I'm not really hungry so I was hoping you would eat them."

I'm lying. I'm actually quite hungry. I had just spent my day's earnings on this tiny dessert meal to cheer up the child. It seemed he took no notice, or care, continuing to glare out of the window. It was time for reverse psychology. Children were easily susceptible to that, right?

"Well," I hummed out, drawing his attention back to me, "I guess I'm going to have all the fun eating these churros on my own~!"

The boy scowled, and for a while, he watched me nibble at the churro I'd already taken a bite of, then dip it in the caramel, then take another bite, and then as I was dipping again and reaching for his hot chocolate, I got a smack to the hand.

"Don't fucking double dip!" he snapped, yanking off a glove, his other hand grabbing his mug of hot chocolate to bring it closer protectively.

I smiled and laughed, twirling my churro to prevent caramel sauce from dripping back to the table before popping it in my mouth happily as he reached for his own churro. At least now he was eating. I win.

We ate in silence together, the pleasant hum of some instrumental music playing in the background from a crackling radio, the atmosphere putting me at ease with its old lace curtains, aging timber floors worn with the many shoes that had graced its surface and the faded but beautiful floral printed chair cushions. The dessert was delectable as well; fluffy and melting in my mouth, the sugar tickling my taste buds and trickling into me in little bursts of energy that my body needed after sprinting about the streets in pursuit of two insanely swift children. The caramel sauce was thick and hot; it warmed my mouth which only heated up more once I drank more of the hot chocolate- sweet and thick like the sauce, but as easy to drink as water. It warmed me up from within and made me smile, thanking God I was able to have food placed before me.

My eyes flicked up to the Italian as I licked my lips of stray grains of sugar, watching as he mimicked my actions of dipping the doughnut-stick snack into the chocolate sauce, twisting it about awkwardly in his hand to turn it back to him, a few drops of chocolate dripping to the table and falling on his chin before he managed to snag a bite, looking a mix of surprised and delighted at the taste that danced on his tongue.

I chuckled, drawing the boy's attention to myself, "You're getting chocolate sauce everywhere."

The boy glanced down and frowned, cheeks heating up brightly.

"I don't fucking eat these things often—how the hell am I meant to know how to eat them!" Lovino protested through a half full mouth, wagging his bitten churro at me.

I couldn't help but laugh, picking up a napkin and leaned over the table, careful not to dip my clothes in the food or spill the hot drinks or sauces as I gently placed my fingers beneath his chin and tipped his head up, beginning to clean his face softly of the sauce.

"I'll have to teach you how to eat them properly then," I told him with a smile.

"Fuck off."

I sighed. "I'll have to teach you some nicer English than that, too; and maybe some Spanish as well."

The little Italian frowned at me, smacking at my hand until it left his face, shuffling backwards in his seat, face a molten red. "Creeper, why would I need to learn _Spanish_?" he spat, rubbing rather aggressively at where I'd cleaned.

Sitting myself down in my seat once more, I cleaned up the speckles of chocolate sauce from the table, placing the dirtied napkin nearby for later use in cleaning. I had a feeling that the boy was going to keep being messy.

"It's a nice language, sí? It's similar to Italian too, so, it shouldn't be too hard for you to pick up," I explained, giving a small gesture to the eight year old, "Besides, you've learnt English quite well for a boy your age. You're as good as me! That's impressive. English is a hard to understand language."

The boy snorted, scowling at his churro as he dipped it once more in the sauce, trying again to eat and be neater, and failing once more as a hot drop of chocolate dripped onto his hand.

"I hate English, but no one understands me if I speak Italian, and I hate stupid people not understanding me," he grumbled through a mouthful of churro.

I gave him an awkward smile. "That's not people being stupid, that's people not speaking the same language. It can't be helped if you go into other countries," I pointed out, taking sip of my hot chocolate, trying to preserve the heat in the liquid by wrapping both hands around the mug, covering the top with half my hands, the steam condensing on my palms in a sticky but pleasant heat.

Lovino merely rolled his eyes and grunted out a short, "Whatever."

We dissolved into another silence, a bit less awkward than before, but nonetheless I wanted to have him talking again. I surveyed him quietly, absently eating my churro as I inspected how similar he looked to his brother. They weren't twins, but they could be easily be mistaken for twins, I presumed.

"I didn't know you had a brother," I commented casually, watching as the Italian stiffened up, "Don't you like him?"

"Why the hell should I?" he shot back almost immediately.

"Well, he's your brother, right? He really loves you."

"I don't care."

Well, this seemed like an almost fruitless effort. The little Italian seemed stubbornly reluctant to discuss family. Not that I could blame him—me and my own family were quite the group when we were all together… Nonetheless, I made a slight face of exasperation towards Lovino before sighing and shaking my head, reaching out for the last churro, my hand hovering above it before I pulled my hand back, opting to finish my drink while it was still hot.

"I… I do."

I looked up from my drink, the remaining steam curling and fading about my lips like a smoky moustache.

"Qué?"

"I _do_ care about Feliciano… but… I want…" Lovino trailed off, face turning red as he scowled at the plate of powdered cinnamon sugar and the last churro. I smiled at the Italian, not wanting to push too much, but in the end, it seemed a prompt was needed when he didn't continue.

"What is it you want?" I urged gently, watching in amusement as his little fists clenched and his face burrowed a bit into the neck of his coat.

"I don't want to share," he muttered grumpily, voice a low muffle in his coat.

I smiled brighter, finishing off my cup of hot chocolate before pushing the plate forward, offering the final bit of food as tribute to my words.

"I'll only ever take you out for churros and hot chocolate."

* * *

><p><em>Lovino cherished that last churro, just like he treasures my promise. I cherish the smile he tried to hide with a mouthful of pastry and cinnamon sugar he thought I didn't see. I never did take anyone else out for churros, and I don't regret that he was the first I took out either. I can't eat another without seeing his smile again.<em>

* * *

><p>"Here, bastardo, take it."<p>

Looking up from my guitar strings, I stared on at the Italian in confusion, and then my eyes lowered to the bill in his hand, outstretched to me. I nearly had a heart attack when I read the bold _50_ along its neat and new surface, my hands stilling the tune that they had been plucking from my heart to the open air for all to hear.

_How did Lovino get a hold of 50 Euros?_

"I said take it, fuck nut!" He snapped, jerking his hand and the money towards me once more, frown set deep in his face in irritation.

I must have made a perfect imitation of a gaping fish with the way my mouth opened and closed repeatedly, my eyes wide and staring. After a few moments of gawking, Lovino snarled.

"Are you seriously retarded or something? Take the money, dumbass!" he ground out.

"L-Lovi, where did you get that from?" I managed to choke out when I found my voice.

"It doesn't matter, just take it."

"It _does_ matter—that's a lot of money you're holding there!"

Lovino shrugged, scrunching up his little nose as he pursed his lips. "I know, and I'm giving it to you."

"I can't accept that."

Oh, how I wished I could, but there was something so terribly wrong with taking such a large sum of money from a child. I'd love to take that note and go buy myself some hot food, or maybe even a new pair of gloves, or socks, but, I just couldn't take that money.

"Why not?" he asked, looking like he was growing irritated with me, snubbing his little nose in the air, "I'm in a higher class than you, so you have to do as I say."

I forced the smile that I gave him, slightly strained because I knew that he was also telling the truth: the boy was clearly from an upper class neighbourhood or well endowed family. Subconsciously, I tried to hide the beginnings of frays at the base of my jacket where the hems had begun to give way.

"I don't want to accept fifty Euros from a child."

"Would you accept it from an adult?"

I frowned in thought, my eyebrows scrunching together. "Depends on the situation," I replied slowly.

"Cazzo, what's wrong with accepting it from me then?" he snapped, "I'm not a stupid random adult, or just some kid!"

"You're still eight," I reminded with a teasing sparkle in my eye.

"Fuck you, old man, take the money so you can afford dentures when I break all your teeth out," he shrieked, throwing the money at me in a violent manner, only for the bill to flutter harmlessly to the sidewalk.

We both stared for a while, Lovino taking in deep and angry breaths, and me just watching the note flutter slightly, brushed by faint breaths of wind.

_Wind_.

In barely an instant after I had the realisation, I reached out and curled my fingers around the Euro, the paper hot in my hands and scolding me. I didn't want to let it go anymore. I wanted this _so bad_.

"It's about fucking time."

"Take it back."

It wasn't even a thought anymore, just words. I had to give it back. It wasn't right to keep it, and was definitely wrong to accept it from a little boy.

"You're the most difficult piece of crap I've ever dealt with!" he complained, crossing his arms.

I smiled. "That's a bold statement for someone your age. Come on, take it back," I urged, an idea popping into my head, "Or do I have to give it to your mother?"

Lovino bristled within a split second, amber eyes growing wide and angry, shoulders stiffening and lips twitching into a snarl.

"You don't even know my mother!"

"Hm? Are you sure I don't?"

I don't, but, whatever makes him take the money back.

It seemed to work as well, and I found myself mentally thrilled that I could work out the mind of a child so easily. The little Italian appeared to have a little debate with himself, and I could see the conflict in his eyes as he chewed on the inside of his cheeks in contemplation.

"Fine, I'll take it," he grumbled, reaching out to take the note from me, but as his fingers grasped it, I held on, "Look, I said I'd take it!"

"I'm going to make sure you return it to your mother, sí?" I told him, expression serious, raising my eyebrows a bit and giving him the best you-will-do-as-I-say look. I wasn't really good at them, and judging by Lovino's unimpressed scowl, I'd say he thought so as well.

"How the hell will you do that?" he challenged, voice flat and annoyed.

"Simple."

It wasn't really.

"I'll take you right back to her and watch you give her the money!"

Little fine eyebrows shot up and twisted together with the force of the frown, the Italian's little body tense as he analysed my face, trying to decipher whether I was lying or not. I _would_ take him back to his mother, but, he'd have to lead me to her. I'd never met the woman. Actually, I'd never met either of his parents. I'd seen his little brother only once before, and that was it, in the whole month or two we've known each other, I'd never seen a single sign of parental guardians.

At this stage, if I hadn't met Feliciano who had talked about Lovino not telling their parents where he was going, I would almost believe the boy was orphaned, or, on a school trip to Spain. Not only did Lovino never mention family, he also seemed reluctant to take me to them.

It wasn't like I would mug his parents or anything, no matter how rich.

"Come on. I'll take you now," I decided, beginning to slowly pack up my instrument, brushing aside a few Euro I'd received so I could press them to the edge of the guitar case and scoop them all up neatly together, depositing them in my pocket.

"Moron, you'll lose all your money that way!"

I looked up at Lovino as I slid in my guitar to rest in the velvet interior case, giving the boy a small, "Hm?"

He gestured to my pocket. "Your money will fall out if you're not careful! Cazzo, you're such an airhead!" he scolded, digging his hand into one of his coat pockets, grumbling as he searched about with his gloved hand.

"I've never lost any money like this; it's fine!" I said with a smile, tightening the straps around the neck of my guitar, and the one that went just about the base, giving my beloved songstress a gentle stroke and smile before closing the case, zipping it up securely.

"Well you _will_!" Lovino growled, yanking out a little drawstring satchel—a black fabric base with cute little tomatoes patterned along the cotton and the occasional white spot, the drawstring dyed a pretty tomato red. How utterly cute!

"Here, take it," he said firmly, as though he was leaving no room for argument as he thrust the little bag towards me, "It's empty, I don't want it anymore, and you need it more than me. Buy yourself a wallet or a purse or _something_. Cazzo. This will do in the meantime."

"Aww, more gifts for me? So cute of you to do that! You _must_ have a crush on me if you're spending so long with me and getting me gifts~!" I cooed, pressing my palms to the cement (icy, freezing, still slick with bits of ice and burning in its coldness at the unprotected skin on my hands), standing up and slinging my guitar case on my back.

"Jesus fuck you dick muncher!" Lovino shrieked, face turning tomato red, and I chuckled a little at his outburst, even if it drew the attention of a nearby store attendant who looked over in a mixture of shock and disgust, "Just take the fucking bag! I bought it for half a Euro! It's not a gift! It's me pitying your sorry ass when you lose your purse change down the gutter! Now take the fucking bag and put your money in it before I change my mind and toss this bag _and_ your three and a half Euro into the pond across the road!"

I didn't want him doing that. Not at all… These three and a half Pesetas were dinner, breakfast, and maybe lunch if I could stretch something out. Maybe skip dinner, or even save some food from my other two meals? I was scrounging about enough as is without him tossing my earnings off into the semi-frozen, if not completely frozen, pond in the Jardín Botánico de Madrid.

"I'm only teasing," I assured with a pet on the head, ruffling his hair (to which he scowled at and snapped at my wrist and hand as though he was trying to bite me), plucking the little cloth drawstring bag from his hand and extracted my money, slipping it into the fabric and closing it with a smooth tug on the red drawstring.

"There, it all fits~! Thank you Lovi~" I chirped, leaning in and giving him a little squeeze of a hug, to which he, of course, protested with shrieks of cusses and curled fists banged on my shoulders and chest. So precious!

"I'll treasure this gift from you always!"

The little beatings stopped and I straightened up, smiling at the shocked look on his face, only barely picking up the lick of another emotion before it was gone as quick as it came, gone too quick before I could recognise it and he was turning away, walking in a shuffle.

"Lovi?" I asked slowly, voice laced with a hint of concern as I watched him go.

"Come on, asshole. My mother's not going to stay in the city all day."

With a smile, I jogged to catch up to him before settling into a slow walk set by his little steps, watching his expression endearingly. As much of a rude, angry and tough exterior he put up, he got adorably embarrassed by simple almost-sentimental statements. It was such an endearing trait I couldn't help but find myself admiring. Even with his constant cursing and mouth fouler than a sailor's, Lovino had his cute moments.

"Creeper- you should stop staring at me before your eyes burn a hole through my fucking skull."

I chuckled at being caught, petting his head despite his grumbled protests and let my hand fall to his shoulder as I walked along beside him.

"I'll try not to burn a hole through your skull," I joked, turning my eyes back up to watch Madrid pass around us.

I could feel it melt and mould away, almost like we were in our own little bubble and the world collided with us, but then smoothed around the sphere and never reached us. The wind had picked up, and even though my brown waves and curls floated in the caresses of the cold breaths, I couldn't really feel it on my face. Even through my thinning clothes, the chill didn't bother me; not as much as usual, or how it once did. Winter wasn't a cold time anymore, not really. It was tinged with the tiniest spice of warmth that smelt of olives and pasta sauce, and radiated a warm heat like a freshly cooked pizza.

These metaphors do nothing for my hunger, but with that small warmth by me, I could almost ignore the sharp little pains in my stomach, reminding me I hadn't eaten yet- not today. But it didn't matter, because I had three and a half Euro, and that would afford me a nice warm plate of churros I could share with Lovino, and I knew I'd thaw out in that cute little café I took him to, and I'd be full just watching him lighten up and enjoy the food.

My hand tingled in cold, and I blinked as the bubble around us burst violently, the atmosphere broken, enticing a shiver through my body as the wind picked up and drove its tendrils through the woven fabrics of my clothes and crawled along my skin, drawing forward goose bumps.

What was causing that unnerving chill?

I scanned the area, and then glanced back at Lovino who had stopped walking, my hand by my side again, no longer resting on his little shoulder. Another breeze picked up and shifted some of his hair about his face, his unnerved scowl only barely hidden from the angle, lighting and hair.

"Lovi?" I asked, turning and walking back to him, kneeling down in front of him, my eyebrows knitting in concern and offering him a gentle smile, "What's wrong?"

Pretty amber eyes lifted to my face, done with staring at the cracked and snow slicked pavement. I frowned a bit, reaching up to brush some dark chocolate strands of hair from his face, studying the warm colours in his eyes. He'd never let me look this long before, and I took this moment to inspect every detail, every fleck and hue, but most importantly, I took the time to inspect his emotions and what he was trying to say to me.

Lovino didn't speak—his eyes did.

The precious amber orbs I was watching lifted from mine to stare off somewhere behind me at the scenes of high-end cafés and restaurants dotted between brand name boutiques. I turned my eyes to look behind me as well, following his gaze, feeling uncomfortable with how I, in my not-brand-name clothes and less-than-high-class appearance stood out like a sore thumb in this neighbourhood.

I never came here; not during the winter, but in the summer- with the right clothes- some cafés and restaurants would hire me to play for them if I offered and bluffed. According to some of them, I was a successful and well respected musician overseas in America and Latin America. I didn't like lying to them, and, in a way, I wasn't. I'd never said that directly. I'd just told them I'd played in America and parts of Latin America before, and they mistook that as though I had played in concerts overseas. By the time I realised that was what they believed, an uncountable amount of time had passed, and it was too late to correct the mistake. So I simply smiled and let them believe. I never lied—they had tricked and deluded themselves, and I was simply too needy to point out the falsities.

I hated liars.

I'm not a liar.

I had to be careful about being seen here in this neighbourhood in my current attire.

Scanning the area quickly for familiar faces and recognisable places, I searched for the object that Lovino's eyes were focused on, and then I spotted it; a quaint café, its name in such fancy cursive that it could have been written in any of the languages of romance. Its soft golden painted exterior was clean of dust, dirt and imperfections, its windows scrubbed surgically clean so that I could see my reflection perfectly, even from this distance separating me from its sheen glass, but I could also see inside equally as clearly.

A woman, short brown hair cut into a bob sat sipping at a coffee daintily, her coat shed, leaving her in a perfectly creaseless and fresh-out-of-the-store look of newness. She was like a model, and I caught myself staring as well, fascinated in how her painted red lips pressed to the cup, long and dark lashes brushing light olive skin as her eyes fluttered shut against her cheeks.

"Mia madre," Lovino spoke, from beside me, and my eyebrows rose in shock.

This beautiful woman was Lovino's mother? She seemed so lovely…

Why was Lovino's voice strained and afraid?

I turned my eyes back to him, inspecting his expression. He remained staring ahead at the woman—his mother. Amber eyes were uncertain and showed the discomfort in his posture, stiff and emitting an aura of wishing to flee. The little Italian didn't want to be here, and I felt cruel all of a sudden, as though I shouldn't be forcing him to be here. But it was his _mother_, and all I wanted was to make sure that Lovino gave her the fifty Euros he had obtained.

She didn't look like she really needed it.

What am I thinking? It's wrong to accept the money—wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

As I went to open my mouth, the jingle of a soft bell met my ears, and the click of stiletto heeled boots resonated across the icy pavement, approaching me and Lovino. I turned back, catching her walking- strong, confident and proud-, moving with the grace of a swan, with a scorching passion as hot as an inferno, and with eyes as sharp and disapproving as any Italian mother. She was fierce, but that could be chalked down to seeing her son with a strange man.

I hadn't even noticed when she'd put down her coffee, or seen us, to be exact, but I did realise when she was standing before me, because it pulled me to my feet as well, standing up straight and looking down at her, but only by a bit. I was tall, but she had long and slim legs women killed for, and her heels added an extra three inches to her height so that she was now almost at my level.

"Lovino, vieni qui subito. Non stare così vicino agli uomini strani," she hissed, her crimson painted lips parting to have the perfect Italian slip into the air, and the small brunette by my side reluctantly trudged over, shoulders drooped and tense, head down.

I don't speak Italian, but if I strain my ears and concentrate, I can almost make out what Italian words mean, if only because Spanish and Italian sound so alike. It's the same with Spanish and French, and I find myself picking up bits and pieces of one of my best friend's words when he speaks in the "Language of Love".

"I am sorry, but who are _you_?"

I was drawn out of my small attempts at translating Italian to smile at the brunette before me, hoping I looked pleasant to her, but I had the feeling that no matter how brightly I smiled, she would still be judging me on my clothing as she was now: scrutinising me with chocolate brown orbs, a look of disapproval shining behind them that never reached any other part of her young face.

"Lo siento, my name is Antonio," I introduced, holding out a hand for her to shake.

She didn't accept.

"So, _Antonio_," she began, my name disliked on her tongue, "What were you doing with my son?"

I lowered my hand slowly and gestured towards Lovino. "You see, I've come to make sure he returns something to you. Well, gives it to you," I corrected with a small laugh—I didn't know if Lovino had taken the money from her or obtained it from elsewhere.

"Oh?" she drawled, quirking a perfectly shaped eyebrow, arched and shaped in a way that made her look even more displeased, and angrier, than she may, or may not, have been, "What does he have for me?"

Chocolate eyes lowered to the boy by her side, her long and slim fingers curling about Lovino's upper arm and gripping (too tight, I noted, mentally grimacing as the way her fire engine red painted nails dug into the soft coat that Lovino wore).

"Lovino, what does this man want you to give me?" she spoke coldly, angrily, and I felt discomfort settle in my gut, more so when I watched Lovino squirm and try and tug his arm back, frowning.

"Nothing!" he bit out, and my shoulders drooped slightly, still attempting to keep on a pleasant smile, if not for the sake of appearances, then for reassurance to Lovino that things were _okay_.

"It's fine; it's only your mama," I said gently, catching Lovino's panicked and angry eyes with my own. Would it have been better to simply accept the fifty Euros in the end? _No_. I had to tell myself that this was the right thing to do.

"Yes, now give _mama_ what you have for me," she spoke, voice cold.

A shiver forced its way down my spine. I'm not sure why, but, I didn't like the way she spoke to Lovino. I didn't like her tone, her attitude, the way she looked at him, the way her fingers gripped tighter…

_Too tight_, _too tight_!

"I-It's just some money!" Lovino blurted out, making a loud whine as his other gloved hand pawed at the one grasping to his upper arm, "Madre, fa male!"

"Money?"

Now those chocolate brown eyes were definitely angry, but now that ferocious look was directed at me and I tensed, held still by her serpent like stare.

"How much money?"

"Fifty Euros," I replied honestly, "He tried to give it to me, and I couldn't accept because—"

My sentence was silenced by a harsh slap, and it hurt more with my icy cheeks, her nails catching my skin and leaving a sharp biting pain behind. I cracked open my left eye which had closed instinctively as that side of my face was struck, the sting remaining.

"Thief! You robbed me! You coaxed and threatened my son into robbing me, you filthy low breed!" she spat, and I flinched.

"Q-Qué? N-No, I didn't!" I replied quickly, shaking my head.

"You did, lying scum!" she bit back without pause, "Just look at yourself! Of course some filthy, creepy, soulless beast such as you from a dirt poor country would force a child to steal money from their mother!"

There was no need to bring Spain and its economy into this… It wasn't just us, I was certain _the world_ was going through a tough time now…

"I-I didn't, honest!" I pleaded, glancing down to Lovino when I heard him make a whimper that sounded almost _pained_. She was holding him too tightly, and I wished to say something—anything! But I wasn't in the right place. I had no status, nor was Lovino my son, so I couldn't tell her to loosen her hold on her child, even though I am a man, and she, a woman.

"Lies," she growled, yanking Lovino back harshly, the boy stumbling a bit to keep his balance, grasping to his mother's coat.

"Not lies! I stole the money! He didn't ask for it, and he made me come here to give it back!" Lovino shouted, silenced by a slap and my hands shook, eyes widening in horror.

I hated watching people abuse their children. I was too soft, my friends had said, and I had a weak spot for children. I knew that. But it didn't stop me from flinching and becoming discomforted by displays of child abuse or discipline. The line was so fine for me that they were almost the same thing. I couldn't stand watching children be hit—slapping a child was surely abuse and not discipline, no matter what people said.

"Stai zitto immediatamente. Sto dicendo tuo padre su questo," she whispered angrily to her son, and I was left gaping at her as she stood up straight, tugging Lovino backwards with her, her next words directed at me.

"You're lucky I don't call the police on you, poor beggar. We don't need filth like you littering the streets with your worthless existence. Stay away from my son."

I watched her take Lovino away as snow drifted from nearby rooves, highlighting the place where stilettos had stood beside small boots. I did nothing but watch in numb shock, even as Lovino struggled, cursed and shouted in angry and rapid Italian as he was pulled away. His voice carried to me until it was silenced by the slam of a car door somewhere a few streets away and the sound of a roaring engine took him to heaven knows where.

I was numb- my thoughts haunted by that small eight year old struggling and how he was struck so coldly by a beautiful woman with a hideous interior that he called his mother.

I don't like women—too cruel, cold, and covered with masks of deceit.

I only barely caught myself before I praised my mother's fate, turning and leaving the streets of upper class Madrid in silence to return to the place I called my home.

* * *

><p><em>My heart still clenches when I think of the way that small hand desperately reached out for me, and how my name was lost in the breeze when he cried it out, louder than any of his curses, and all I did was stand there and stare.<em>

* * *

><p>I hadn't seen Lovino for over a week—weeks in fact. It was starting to get to me now, and I worried for my mental health—I'd grown so attached to the boy that it was almost instinctual to look about for him as I played my guitar, waiting for him to come and sit by me and listen to me play. Day after day I waited in my usual spot opposite the park, watching the streets fill and empty with faceless people, all in a rush to get to their destination; all unappreciative of the music I played to coax them out of their tunnel vision world.<p>

It was lonesome without the scowling boy beside me, reassuring me my music wasn't as shit as it could have been, or grumbling that I was so cheerful that the shine I emitted would damage his eyesight and it would be my fault if he ever needed glasses. They were roundabout compliments disguised as insults, but they were still compliments in Lovino's books.

_You play very nicely_. _I like how you're so bright and cheerful all the time_.

That was what his words really meant, or what I thought they really meant, and I was starting to get the hang of understanding him a little, but I'd be lying if I said I completely understood the boy. A lot of the time I was at a complete loss as to what he meant, and whether his insults were true or just his shy way of complimenting.

The world was touched by the warm fingers of oncoming spring before I knew it, the thick snow that had built up throughout the winter thawing out at the faintest breath of heat that finally reached España. Birds began their joyous twittering and accompanied my guitar in their merriness with the promise that warmer nights were coming. This winter had been a harsh one.

January came and went, and mid February was warmer than the years previous. It crackled the ice-frozen leaves into life with the calling of a scorching summer, or an early summer.

Streets became livelier, and I smiled kindly to every fraction of a Euro dropped in my case, breathing sighs of relief at the end of each day when the sum was big enough for me to eat three meals the following day without worry of starvation within the week. I stored all of my coins in my pocket, inside the little tomato satchel that Lovino had given me back in December. I kept it safe and always with me, my tan and guitar-calloused hands seeking its soft fabric to confirm it was still there. The Italian would be pleased to know I used it. Or maybe he would be angry and flustered?

I almost missed his insults, even if it earned us odd stares and me scolding looks from disapproving mothers and citizens for Lovino's foul mouth.

Every time I heard a curse, English or Italian, I'd turn about, searching, only to feel disappointment tug at my heart when it wasn't a tomato-cheeked Italian's lips the curses were falling from. It was unhealthy how I waited for him, I decided, too ashamed to really tell my friends. They'd say it wasn't healthy too. But I suppose it was my own wish for children that made me so fascinated with Lovino, doting on him like an older brother or father.

At least, like older brothers and fathers _should_ behave. I was never a part of the conventional type of family.

I sat twirling the churros about in the caramel sauce as I thought of what could have happened to the boy, and his mother. It still unsettled me, thinking of the way she had treated him. It just wasn't _right_.

I sighed for the millionth time since the incident, lifting up my churro to watch the caramel drip back into the little pot the sauce had been delivered in and finished the snack, licking my fingers clean of cinnamon sugar and pressing a few coins to the table to pay for my meal as I stood.

"Gracias!" I called out to the back, picking up my thinning coat and tugged it back on, "Tan delicioso!"

I smiled warmly at the laugh tinted with age as the grandmamma who owned the store hobbled out, nodding her head in appreciation.

"Gracias Antonio," she cooed, shuffling over to pick up the tray with aging hands, wrinkled and shaking.

I took the tray before she could, leaning down to peck at her cheek gently and moved on towards the kitchen, placing it on the right counter before she could object, flashing a kind smile back to her.

"Trabajas todos los días- duerma un poco, ¿de acuerdo?" I advised her as I helped guide her frail body to a nearby chair, brushing off her thanks she spoke repeated to me.

"Gracias, Antonio, gracias, gracias."

She was getting on in years, and I hoped she would take my advice to get some sleep and rest a little. I only paused in adjusting her blankets around her frail legs when I heard it. It was faint, but still, there was no denying that that curse was shouted out by the lips of a small, pre-pubescent Italian boy.

_Lovino_.

I turned my head to the window, listening to the screams and cursing getting louder, and I moved over briskly, placing one hand on the edge of the windowsill that ran horizontally, the other pressed to the one that ran perpendicularly, leaning forward to try and get a good view out of the misted window.

"Antonio?"

I glanced back at the elderly lady who smiled in concern, and I realised I must have worried her.

"Estoy bien, pero, lo siento—tengo que ir ahora. Yo oigo mi amigo," I explained before turning, hands grasping for the sash on my guitar case, slinging it onto my back and darted out of the little café, sprinting out onto the road.

Which direction was that voice coming from? Where was he?

I glanced from left to right to left again, my eyebrows knitting as I heard the voice screeching again, this time accompanied by rapid fire Italian by a female voice. I moved to my left, following the sound of the angrily spat words in the twilight, my eyes searching, my footsteps becoming hurried, and soon, I broke out into a light jog, the guitar case banging my hip with each push I made forwards.

Surely he was around here… I heard him! I heard him! There was no mistaking that voice anywhere! Even if I hadn't heard it for two months now…

"I'll fucking cut off your hand and shove it into your ovaries through your fucking nostrils if you touch me again!"

That sounded _wonderful_. Not the sentence meaning, but the fact that that was my little Lovino spewing insults and curses. I didn't even need to ask if it was odd to be happy at the sound of cursing, because I knew it was, yet I didn't care. That was Lovino!

I grasped onto a pole, using it to catch my balance as I nearly toppled forwards, moving to run once more when a weight barrelled right into my leg, crashing back to the ground, making me stumble, grasping to the lamp post with both hands to stop myself from body slamming the curled up ball of twitching crimson in front of me.

A brown head lifted, an errant curl bouncing out, crooked with agitation as golden brown eyes lifted, at first infuriated, but then they grew wide, little lips that had parted to undoubtedly curse now remained agape in surprise. I stared back equally as stunned, but before I could smile or react, the little boy was scrambling awkwardly to his feet, skidding and slipping and making a quick dive for behind me.

I twisted my head, lifting an arm to glance down. "Ehi! Hold up a moment!"

"Lovino!"

I turned my attention to the panting woman before me, her hair silky soft but with slight disarray, large chocolate brown eyes wide in a fury that was no longer hidden, an ugliness on her face so obvious I nearly gagged. She was beautiful still, but only in body. There was something about her that just made her seem so hideous to me now.

"È questa? E 'questo che vuoi?" she hissed, standing up straight.

The little Italian behind me grasped to my coat and snarled- amber eyes ferocious and wet.

"Sì."

His mother—the lady before me—sighed heavily, standing up straighter.

"Bene," she whispered, her eyes carving a path up my clothes and body, resting on my face and I swallowed, straightening up.

For some reason, I felt the need to protect Lovino, and I lowered a hand to his shoulder, gently easing him behind me so I could serve as a shield. The boy had no objections, shuffling behind me, little fists curling into the base of my coat, his face stuffing into the small of my back, only occasionally peeking out to cast a glare at the brunette opposite of us.

"Take him."

Her words surprised me, and my eyebrows relaxed from the frown, only to shoot up as she waved her hand dismissively.

"If his father doesn't want him, do with him as you please. I'm done with this."

It didn't end like a drama novel, nor some painful parting like those passed down from the wars, but it wasn't smiles and tears of remorse, or best wishes and promises to meet again. It was a coldly breathed statement, punctuated with the click of angry heels and echoed with small hiccupped breaths for a minute before the silence was broken.

"I hope you die, bitch!" Lovino shouted out at the vanished back, little voice breaking with the tease of puberty approaching, shooting his voice up an octave, but I believed the change in tones was more from distress than the boy actually going through any physical changes. Instead, he seemed to be going through emotional ones.

"Lovino…" I began, swivelling to look at the child, falling to my knees to wipe at tears, "I'm confused… What happened? Did you have a fight?"

"No, _dumb shit_, my mother and I were just discussing Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa and expressing our opinions on the bitch's lack of eyebrows," he spat out, rubbing at his eyes, "What the fuck do you think?"

I flinched at the tone, sighing and glanced back, giving a wary look to the streets.

"It's not very nice to fight with your mother," I lectured, "It's also not a good idea to fight in English. More people will understand you."

Lovino snorted, lowering his hands to glare at the ground.

"What the fuck does it matter?" he grumbled.

"Well, I can only imagine what your mother's going through having to chase her son around while he screams not-very-nice things in English around a crowded city," I pointed out.

Speaking of which, we should probably move off to the side so we can stay out of people's way.

"Poor fucking her. I don't give a fucking fuck."

"Lovi, why are you swearing so much? _Please_, keep it down."

"So you're ashamed of me now too, is that it you fucking asshole?"

I blinked, taken aback at the accusation.

"A-Ashamed? No, not at all!"

"Don't lie, jerk!" he snapped, "You're ashamed of me! Just like everyone else!"

I heaved another sigh. I was getting lots of oxygen today and creating quite a lot of carbon dioxide.

"What makes you think I'm ashamed of you?" I asked slowly, gently.

Children had different mindsets to adults, and though they were prone to tantrums easier, they were also easier to calm down with logic and by speaking to someone who was calm. Lovino was still only eight- he had quite a way to go before he'd be able to control his own emotions properly.

"B-Because… You're just like everyone… I hate you… I hate everybody… Why can't everyone leave me the fuck alone?"

It seemed today I was playing therapist to the little Italian, but I didn't mind, not even the little smack I was given on the wrist when I wiped more of his tears away. Somehow, I felt comforted by the feisty boy's presence—that he'd returned. I just had to be persistent, and then he'd open up a little bit more to me. I was an adult! How hard was working a child out?

"Do you want to tell me why you're so mad?" I asked softly, kneeling before the boy who was holding back emotions that he was struggling with, trying to be strong but wanting to cry.

It was tough being that age, wasn't it? I could see the conflict in the wet amber, making the gold and brown glitter like a precious stone, dark eyelashes fluttering with the rapid blinks as Lovino tried to hold the tears in. Boys went through that stage, didn't they? They would try and prove they were boys—_men_—by not crying and being more independent. Only wimps, babies and girls cried! That was the mindset. Lovino was struggling internally with the natural urge to sob as he seemed prone to doing when too stressed or when overwhelmed by things like fear, anger or sadness (though he'd only ever admit to one of those feelings, yet deny his tears until he was on the verge of throwing a tantrum), but also undoubtedly his upbringing of being a boy, and boys don't cry because that's weakness! It was a sad lie passed down in Europe that I wished would stop its circulation of falsities.

Men could cry…

What was wrong with men crying?

"Lovino," I prompted gently, and it seemed my hand on his head did the trick, for he shuffled forward, hitting his head on my shoulder bone as stuffed his face into my collars, once again wetting the fabric.

I was used to comforting Lovino by now and dealing with his tears.

"My parents are getting a divorce," he croaked out, voice unafraid to hide he was crying openly onto me, "They're fighting over who takes me and my brother."

I flinched but stroked his hair softly with one hand as the other wrapped a strong arm about his body, tugging the lithe figure close for an embrace I hoped was comforting, even as he gave little twitches and nervous shifts while I cooed soft shushes against his ear and breathed meaningless nothings of how things would be alright.

I didn't know. I wasn't either of his parents, nor was I the judge that would be announcing the outcome of the trial.

"They're fighting for Feliciano… The loser takes me."

Lovino only kicked and punched for a few minutes when I picked him up and held him close in a tight hug, and then he sobbed and screamed out his grief as he gripped onto me, begging me not to leave him. I didn't care that onlookers were giving us odd glances as I walked through town with him in my arms causing a scene. Oh well. It didn't matter. Half of these people would never see us again, or remember. My only concern was comforting Lovino right now.

He was halfway through mumbling out his insecurities to my shoulder when his words became a bit more distinct, rather than muffled distress I couldn't decipher.

"I can't be perfect like _Feliciano_," he bit out, his brother's name bitter, "I'm clumsy, and can't cook anything but pasta, and I make more mess than I clean. But he's _perfect_! He's good at everything! He can already cook enough things to make a recipe book, is good at cleaning, and he doesn't break things because he doesn't have my stupid twitch!"

Ah, so the way his foot had been jabbing into my side hadn't been on purpose?

"Twitch?" I asked, trying to divert his attention to help him calm down.

"Dannazione," I heard him grumble, "Chorea. The doctor called it Chorea. I can't stop moving sometimes and my arms and legs do things I don't want them to."

I frowned, moving down streets in thought. Chorea… I hadn't heard of that before…

"Do they know what causes it? Or how to fix it?" I asked curiously, spotting the main street ahead and the park behind it.

"No and no. I just suddenly got clumsier and useless," he said with a sniffle, his little body quivering, and again I felt his feet twitch at my hips, the movement jolting all the way up his legs and causing a small spasm in the arms.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Let's cure it."

"Che cazzo?"

I smiled and placed him down on the path that lead through the emptying park, wiping his eyes as I watched his movements. It wasn't _every_ second, but, it was frequent enough to be troublesome. I began to see why Lovino had looked so clumsy earlier when he was running. I nodded as I decided.

"Yes, we'll just have to cure it!" I declared as I sat myself down on the edge of the pavement, looking up at the Italian as the lamp posts flickered on, illuminating the darkened park slightly.

Lovino sniffled and wiped some of the tears away that rolled down his cheek. At least I'd distracted him from his distress of being fought over, but in the worst way.

"How the fuck do you think we can do that? The doctors don't know!" he spat as he shifted from foot to foot, his hand twitching and doing an odd curling motion at his side that rippled up his arm until it rolled at his shoulder, the other side of his body arching upwards in a sway as he tried to fit into a stance that appeared natural whilst simultaneously attempting to disguise the jerky, yet flowing, movement.

It was almost like a dance.

An idea came to mind and I smiled, my eyes lighting up, blinking a few times as light caught in them when Lovino shifted, allowing the lamp light to hit my poor retina.

"We'll dance it out!"

Lovino stared, and for a good minute, that was all he did, completely forgetting about his sadness, or crying, or the fact that his foot was tapping in smooth sways from side to side.

"You're pissing me off."

"Really, maybe that would help!"

"You're making fun of me, bastardo."

"No, really!"

I beamed as I settled the guitar in my lap and strummed, my cold-numbed fingers tingling as the vibration of the strings echoed in the approaching night's air.

"If you want to move, just let it out! Maybe that will help?" I said as I plucked the steel strings in a fiery and passionate tune that flickered and danced like sparks on the water, "There's no harm in trying."

"Fuck no," Lovino grunted, crossing his arms stubbornly across his chest, scowling at me.

"Try," I repeated, continuing a slow and purring rhythm that dripped about us.

It told us we were alone, that no one was watching but me, Lovino, the stars and sky and the sinking sun and rising moon. It pooled at our feet and where I sat, spreading like a growing puddle that seeped into our ears, beating our hearts like the drums that should have accompanied it. I smiled at Lovino, watching as his muscles twitched again, making him sway his hips to the other side, cocking them to lock them in place and stop any further movements.

"Lovi."

"Che?"

"Just dance… Nobody is watching you," I soothed, my eyes falling to my hands as I watched them pull the slow tune from my instrument which served as a medium to pull the song from my heart.

If he didn't want anyone watching, then that was okay with me.

I pressed my fingers to the strings firmer and released them from the pressure so they would cry out louder, my calluses gliding across its throat as a series of notes fell from the mouth of my guitar in perfect pitch up and down the scale in replica of Spanish melody. The beat rocked us slowly, and I let my eyes shut, not needing to watch where it was I was touching, knowing the guitar like a lover or a part of my own body. We were one and the same, my instrument and I.

"Dance," I repeated in a breath that was taken by the breeze.

It was small movements, at first. I could hear them if I strained my ears, to which I did, and focused on the shift of fabric, and then the steps of boots on not-quite-unfrozen ground.

Cautiously, I opened my eyes to look to Lovino.

The picture he painted was one I wished I could capture forever in colour and movement; the way he moved shyly, slowly, his eyes closed, dark lashes resting on his cheeks that I could easily tell were blushed red, even in the darkness. His little awkward sway that expressed his uncertainty of what he was doing, and undoubtedly his feeling of foolishness for dancing in a park with a stranger.

The moon rose above the trees, diving along the whiteness and stretching out to illuminate the gardens around us like a cage of purity and crystal colours of white, lavender, baby blue and gold. The street lamps made the path mysterious, almost otherworldly, and their curled black and intricate designs made the electrical bulb in them look almost like a flame.

And how it made Lovino _glow_…

My fingers raised the tempo of the song, my fingers tapping the wooden body to add the illusion of a drum, and I watched as the Italian let himself loosen and relax as the music reached up to caress up his body and move him along in an elegant trance, his eyes still shut.

What a beautiful dancer…

His hands rose and moved in an exotic mixture of Spanish and Italian traditional dance, his hips swaying and legs perfectly twirling him about. I was captivated. My heart beat fast with the song and my fingers, the call of the guitar climbing higher into the night sky so that even the moon could hear as the melody and Lovino moved faster in synchronistic motions that consisted of sways, curls, arches and quick steps.

The spontaneous muscle movements seemed to decrease the faster he went, and in encouragement, I set the final pace- a brisk tune that had my fingers flying, my body swaying and me joining in with the way that the music would take me away with Lovino's dance to a place no one but we knew existed; a place in the land of white, lavender, blue and gold, and within the happy shine of amber that caught the reflection of the moon and stars when they opened and caught my eyes with the barest of curl of lips that quirked upwards in the almost-there beginnings of something that wasn't a scowl.

"Lovino," I whispered, afraid to break the atmosphere as the guitar reached its peak, the Italian's movements fast and getting faster, my fingers almost hurting with a combination of speed and numbness from the cold, and then it all stopped at once—the music, the dance, the exhilaration and I was left breathless and staring as strands of brown fell back around creamy olive skin, the curl soft and less rigid.

He glanced down at himself, light catching off his lashes and the remnants of tears that clung to them like crystals, watching his body for violent twitches and spasms.

I'll never forget his look of stunned surprise when he lifted his eyes back up to me, when after five minutes of stillness he realised that the Tarantella had taken away a cause of his great clumsiness.

"I'll always be here for you, Lovino…"

* * *

><p><em>It probably wasn't the dance that had cured him, but the fact that he had opened up that little bit more and shared his burden. With the thrum of guitar strings still echoing in our ears, the little smile he tried to hide by turning his head was thanks enough for me, and I pretended not to see it, even if the illumination from the moon made his tomato red cheeks give an obvious glow…<em>

* * *

><p><strong><em>Hopefully that was worth the wait for you guys! Forgive any badly written Italian, I don't speak a lick of Italiano in the slightest, and to all the Spaniards out there, forgive me if I've translated anything wrong- I'm still in the process of learning, but, I AM studying Spanish, so all of these were translated by me, so, uh, incorrectness ahoy. Please correct me if I've majorly messed up. (Like verbs. Pretty sure there's some wrong verbs in there.) Also forgive OOCness, if any, and if the story's pace is too fast or too slow. You guys decide.<em>**

**_Anyway, drop by a review to tell me what you think- trust me when I say that when I'm not feeling up to writing, or when my muse is a bit of a flop, I come back and re-read reviews for inspiration to cheer me up and motivate me. (No joke.) Love ya'll and hopefully you won't have to wait too long for the next chapter! (Don't hold your breath though.) Adios~. (Ciao~.)_**


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